


Burning

by motoroilfreeway



Series: Erotomania [4]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Blood, Emetophilia, Happy Ending, M/M, Rape, Violence, Witch AU, dark themes, eventual consensual, immorality against witches, non-con, witch hunter/witch
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-06 09:18:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6748066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motoroilfreeway/pseuds/motoroilfreeway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where witches exist and are known to wreak havoc, witch hunter Alfred Jones thinks that all witches should just perish. However, he finds himself strangely drawn towards one of them that he finds living in the presence of the supernaturals in the dark parts of the woods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> deanon from the kinkmeme.
> 
> Warnings for rape, non-con, blood and violence, and sexual themes. The usual
> 
> also I'll be calling aph denmark Søren bc I suck at naming people. Like I named my goddaughter from a character from power rangers. True story.

            All he remembers were the flames.

Red and yellow and orange. Screaming and pain and agony.

The image of his parents wriggling on the ground like worms introduced to salt are forever burned into his memories.

Then there was a moment when he panics when he realizes his brother wasn’t by his side so he runs, across their little village, no longer quaint and filled with joy but people running and screaming, flames upon flames chasing and eating their flesh until they’re no more. Its blinding.

Nonetheless he runs, screaming for his brother’s name, heart beating fast in his chest at the thought that he could’ve ended up like the rest by now, like his parents, charred and unmoving, their burnt flesh smelt rotten in the air.

Too preoccupied with all the commotion around him, his little feet stumbles on a crack on the path and he falls, almost on his head, but he manages to put his arms in front of him on time. Then everything goes silent.

Not too far from his own face, he sees his brother’s.

Still and unmoving, just how he expected, no matter how much it pained him so.

Just his face. Unlike his parents’, his brother was given no mercy. None of the fires touched him but the warlock itself that was currently ravaging their village in flames.

His entire body was gone, save for his face that reflected the horrors he had been exposed to until death. Until it had killed him.

He remembers those dead eyes reflecting his scared face, how liquids dripped out freely from his eyes, mouth, and nose, as his voice joined along the screams and wails of the people of his village.

Everything smelled like burning flesh.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you really have to, I don’t know, break her legs? Really? I told you again and again that a shot to the head with these specialized bullets were enough!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT AS OF 07/03/16: The pic in this chapter is drawn by me!

            The sound of crunching bones breaks the silence. The birds nearby lounging flee from the trees when screams followed soon after the crunching noises.

She runs fast, this witch, but too bad Alfred is faster.

His stamina isn’t as low as this one either who started to lag not too soon after her sudden flit.

It seems that her energy reserves are not as big as his usual prey, what a shame.

When he catches up sooner than he expected, knowing that he really doesn’t need to but just did it for the sake of inflicting _unnecessary_ pain, he breaks her legs. And thus the sound of crunching bones and ear-wracking screams of shocked pain.

Though right after she skids and tumbles and breaks the bones in her legs entirely when she stumbled and _stopped_ running completely, Alfred finds her back facing him, her practically dragging her body across the forest floor, cussing and laughing at what’s to become of herself now that she’s unable to run with her limbs useless. The way the bones jut out of the torn flesh is disgusting, but a part of him glows with glee seeing this scum suffer just as much, if not more.

His steps were slow and silent as he approached but she sped up nonetheless, feeling his nearly endless reserves of energy in the brink of overflowing.

When he steps on that red and white mess of gore, she screams again.

“That hurts!” She says, as if she’s only being pinched. That positivity somehow reminds him of himself, then gets angry at the thought of ever seeing something in common with these monsters.

He was planning on getting her alive, tie her middle as tight as he could that it would make her lungs compress and hang her up a thick branch by the village nearby, for people to hit and throw rocks at her like a piñata until candy comes out. Shame. He pulls out his colt instead and shoots her between the eyes, when she turned her head towards him.

He can see her brain go splat on the ground behind her, as her head plops down, never to get back up ever again.

 

            “ _What in the Gods_ \---!”

Søren yelps when a mangled witch’s corpse was thrown carelessly onto his desk, messing the things scattered on it including the newly-filled glass of good beer he had been saving until later. A tad pissed at the new comer, he looks up, face red and huffing to see a familiar face. He groans.

“ _Jones,_ of course!”

The man in question just huffs and leans his back on the desk, head turning to look at his friend, no signs of amusement or mirth reflected in his blue eyes, just indifference.

Another groan from Søren. “Do you really have to, I don’t know, _break_ her legs? _Really_? I told you again _and again_ that a shot to the head with these specialized bullets were enough!” He almost shrieks as he nudges at the legs that were barely there, with how… _roughed_ up it was with a pen.

“She was running too fast,”

“Uh-huh,”

“…well, not fast enough if she’s here, is she?” Then there’s that funny glint in his eyes again, as he chews his cheek, white teeth flashing and laughs like how you would at someone who slipped on a bar of soap in the public bathrooms.

Søren bites then sucks at his lips, breathes in, trying to hold in his temper. Contrary to what one might believe seeing them like this they actually get along quite nicely. They trained together to become skilled witch hunters and after that they never lost contact and even went to drinks together whenever they can, but what really pisses of Søren every time whenever he’s with Alfred was whenever he’s in his “witch-hunting mode” because he can get really sadistic and crazy insane. There’s just some itch these witches has on him that makes him squirming and crazy unpredictable. Emphasis on the crazy.

He lets go of his lips with a pop, and he asks with a mock smile and enthusiasm, “So! Who is our lucky bastard of the day?”

As expected, Alfred shrugs, and says, “I dunno. Heard people talking about her in a village nearby so I went for a walk to go look.”

“Okay, witch in a village nearby…. _wait_. You said she runs fast?”

He gets a snort and a shrug. _Right, not fast enough_. Then recognizing the witch through description, his eyes widen in astonishment and excitement as he smacks Alfred in the shoulders whose smile only widens and turns into something more childish as he bites at the inside of his cheek at the friendly smack, followed by tickled laughter.

“You got the _Flitter,_ you crazy bastard!”

“I did?”

“Yeah, you know how much her bounty costs?” They were both laughing now, Søren because he thought Alfred couldn’t get anymore better at what he does but here he is again, to prove him wrong and Alfred because Søren’s laugh is contagious.

“He pulls one of the blank documents under the corpse, thankfully the important parts not covered in too much blood and still legible starts scribbling the necessary information. A squiggly signature at the bottom and he’s done.

Brandishing the paper, he hands it to Alfred whose hands had been held out since Søren started scribbling.

“And get rid of this, will you?” Søren adds, a hand covering his nose and the other waving disgustedly at the corpse that’s starting to smell. Damn witches, always a pest even when dead.

Another snort is what he receives as a reply and Alfred is already walking towards the exit.

“Drinks on you next time, yeah?”

“Yeah!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to find other stuff I draw for my hetalia fics,visit my tumblr @ aph-nitroplush haha


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere faraway from where he is, in a nearby town, the clock strikes three and the bells chime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last part before it takes me weeks again to update..because I am currently drowning in acad works

            Alfred remembers that night as vivid as if it was yesterday.

It was one of those regular nights where his head were filled with thoughts too many for his mind to completely succumb to sleep. It does worse than good for his tired body and mind to force himself to sleep, alone and only in the company of his dark, empty room. He prefers to take longs walks under the moonlight’s guidance if they get too bad, and this was one of those occurrences.

Ever since that time he was almost killed from an unexpected witch attack, his paranoia that a witch could literally just be right behind him ready to strike and hungry for his blood never failed to make its presence known in the back of his mind. He made sure to leave his current home fully armed, currently have no plans whatsoever to pursue any witch at the moment. He thought to himself that he’s doing this as a precaution. A good hunter never leaves unarmed or guarded at all times.

Alfred, knowing himself as well, knows his unpredictability that surprises even himself at times. He knows there’s a chance he’ll stumble into something that will lead to him doing things a person or even a hunter would not do at a time such as this. Every tick from the clock brings the witching hour closer and closer, after all.

Nevertheless, Alfred is wholly confident in his own skill and talents. He knows that no matter how perilous a situation he may bring himself into, he believes he’ll find a way to get himself out of it somehow, even if it was barely by the skin of his teeth. Minds work better when under a heavy pressure after all, or so he believed, as it has always worked for him. This is expected, as his cause is pure and good always wins.

And so after rechecking his weapons, he sets out.

When he told himself that he hasn’t got a plan at all when he set out for his casual late night stroll in the woods, he wasn’t lying.

But then the deeper he went, into the darker and unfamiliar parts of the woods, he felt something. Something like electricity in the air, not stale but quite the opposite, which Alfred immediately found odd when he is walking along the darker parts of the woods where even animals can feel the unsettling atmosphere and voluntarily avoid it at all costs with its lack of life and numerous amount of dead plants and vegetations.

Ever the curious boy that he is, he proceeds deeper to find the answer.

Wandering aimlessly in these parts is very dangerous because if you were not to die from a witch encounter, the loose soils and thick, dead limbs of trees, twisted and turned into scary silhouettes could do the job well. Especially for someone like Alfred who did not bring any source of illumination.

He managed to get through anyway, but with walking with extra caution it took him longer than usual to get through.

_Somewhere faraway from where he is, in a nearby town, the clock strikes three and the bells chime._

A foot was cautiously tapping at the ground, testing if the soil is not loose that his weight will cause the wet soil to swallow him, Alfred jumps back in surprise, almost yelps as he falls hard on his bottom when another careful tap to the ground brings about a strong wave of magic, causing the ground to become heavily fertile and grow blades of very green grass.

He forgets to groan in pain when his bottom hits a very sturdy and fat coil of root jutting out of the soil behind him as he see everything dead around him change into lively colours of brown and green. Some red and yellow and whites and so on as his eyes follow the greenish yellow (or was it yellowish green?) essence of magic dance along with the previously-dead… _things_ around him and make flowers sprout and bloom out of the ground along with the grass.

Suddenly he doesn’t feel like he’s in the scariest parts of the woods anymore but instead a garden. Overwhelmed, he was at a loss of how to react, to think over that this magic must’ve come from something---someone---nearby.

_(A witch)_

Then, he hears it.

Footsteps.

He hears them, soft and careful as they step on the grass and Alfred panics for a moment until he sees a tree sturdy enough and climbs atop it.

Not too long, the area below Alfred becomes visible due to small specks of light, like tiny glowing orbs hovering and flying. Some hovers still at certain areas while some fly over and intentionally make flowers and foliage move, as if playing with them. At first he thought they might be fireflies, but later on scratches the idea off when he tells himself that no firefly can cast light that bright. So bright it works just as fine as a torch. No, this is magic. A witch is at work.

Alfred finds himself leaning down from his hiding place, still careful not to lean his weight too much lest the branches break and reveal himself too early to whoever is responsible but enough so he can properly see and hear.

Soon enough, a figure appears.

He can’t see much from his perch when the person in question was cloaked. Should he reveal himself early in the game and get this over with? He weighs out his options as his hands reach for the weapons on his person. Then he decides that maybe he’ll watch for a while, maybe make a proper strategy for once and actually wait it out until at least the witching hour was over.

He knows nothing of this witch after all. Who knows what kind of surprises it has under its sleeves?

So he remains silent and watches.

Below, Alfred watches the figure crouch low. It seems to be examining something on the ground. What appears to be a woven basket appears from inside its cloak and was brought down carefully next to itself.

Alfred sees a lot of movements but he cannot _see_ what it is doing those for. He’s itching to _know_ , damn it and he can’t see—

_Crack_

Crap.

He leaned too hard and one of the branches gave and fell. Alfred, too preoccupied with his little spying, saw this too late and failed to stop the small thing from falling.

Hissing, he watches as it hits the witch’s hooded head.

Much as he hated it, the witch stood in alarm immediately.

Carefully, he leans back in his hiding place, making sure to make no noise and to remain hidden, hoping not to get found as his hands find themselves hover over a weapon.

“Who’s there?” Came the booming voice from below.

Alfred did not expect the deep voice to come from the witch he had been watching and so he took a small peek below, through the layer of leaves that helped him hide.

The witch’s hood had fallen when it stood up suddenly upon feeling the twig fall on its head.

Were it not for the small glowing orbs accompanying the witch, he wouldn’t have gotten a better look at it---at _him_.

The witch is a he, that much was obvious when he spoke. It was deep and rich and his words, despite so few had been spoken so fluidly he would’ve swooned were Alfred to know any better.

Alfred watches that blond head turn---looking for him, he knows---around clockwise, then stops and turns his face up to where Alfred is hiding. Bright, green eyes, the same colour of the green around them, if not glowing and reminding Alfred of soft moss resting by the rocks in the bottom of a river, meets with his. Or so he thought.

For a moment he swore he felt his heart stop, he thought the witch has found him, but fortunately, his perch from the tree was too high and the space between the leaves from where Alfred is peeking is too small from where the witch stood to actually make out his eyes peeking from above.

His relief was short-lived when the witch, eyes still locked to his (or so he thinks), speaks again. “I know you’re in there. I can feel your presence.”

Alfred gulps, his pistol now out of its holster and his finger already resting on the safe, just waiting for the right moment to start his offence if this goes not according to what he had planned moments prior.

“Show yourself, come on.” The witch says, his voice now has surprisingly dropped its hostile tone and is now speaking lowly, as if calling for a missing pet.

His finger was already pressing on his trigger, aware that it will make a sound that will alert the witch that whoever his intruder is, it definitely is a hunter when a glowing orb, similar to those Alfred is seeing that accompanies the witch appears from his shoulder.

He paused, his hand on his pistol gripping the weapon hard, hand off the trigger, feeling quite not right.

Then the feeling is gone when the glowing orb makes itself known to the witch and a smile blooms from that frowning face it takes Alfred off guard once again.

“There you are.” He hears him say, fondness evident in his voice as his smile softens.

He lowers his gun and slowly slips it back to his holster as he watches the witch cup his hands and let the orb hover over them, as if letting the witch hold it.

“Silly thing, look what you’ve done. Were it any bigger I could’ve got one hell of a bump.” He coos to the thing.

“Why don’t you make yourself useful and help me get the flowers I need, hm?”

Then the orb flies away, far from the witch, from where Alfred was and the witch does nothing but pull his hood up and grab his basket. Then he’s gone, off to follow where the orb has gone, the rest of the orbs following the witch, and Alfred finds himself in the dark and alone again.

He notices that he’s back in the dark and damp part of the woods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We all know what witching time is right?
> 
> Back when I was twelve I did crazy research on demons and one of my sources says is that the witching hour occurs around 3:00 am because that was the time of jesus' death and so the demons rejoiced or something. Tho some also say that demons are active during 12, 6, 9, and 3 (and if you try to connect these numbers on the clock it forms a cross...which is actually the sign of the devil in some religion because it symbolizes the thing where jesus, the son of god was killed in...yea
> 
> I just thought that the "witching hour" is a fitting thingy for witches where they'll get stronger or smething. Kind of like water benders during full moons. That kind of stuff. Haha
> 
> (I had to close my windows while I typed these E/N down bc its like 1 in the morning now and I don't wanna see a scary face peering at me from the window. I don't want to see an elemental looking at me from the window. Like have you seen what they look like??? no offense but they're really scary //shudders)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So! About that boy or do you want everyone right here hear about my awesome adventure I’d like to call ‘how to raise a hunter like Alfred Jones’, hm?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seems like the format my brain has chosen for this fic will be "cut the chapters based on its relevance" or smthing so it seems that this fic's usual ch word count is short. But will some in faster (idk depends on my mood/free time)
> 
> I am off my rocker, I think bc my project deadline is fast approaching and I barely started.

            A couple of sleepless days later, Alfred finds himself in a tavern. He had been receiving invites for a drink lately after his new catch. It seems like that witch had earned herself quite some reputation in the towns nearby.

            Since that stroll in the woods that night, he can’t bring himself to have a good night’s sleep. The witch’s face burned in the back of his mind, his voice a mere whisper yet still loud and clear in his dreams.

These kinds of thoughts consumed him for nights, weighing him down like heavy anchors, drowning him in a sea of exhaustion and confusion. So when he received another invite to a drink at a nearby tavern, he immediately agreed.

“That damn witch…” He moans, head pounding at the wooden table, a hand grasping at a cool glass of fine bourbon. He looses his grip for a moment, but it was enough to let the glass slip from his grasp and topple on the table’s surface.

“ _Shit_ ,” he groans when he felt the cool liquid touch his warm cheeks. He groans harder when the rest of his drinking friends laugh at him, his shoulders receiving pats, playful and sympathetic.

He jumps, startled, when he felt something cool dribble down towards his head.

At the source, was a glass of liquor, tipped and empty, the rest dripping down at where his head was previously resting on. The hand grasping the glass was none other than Gilbert. One of his mentor’s old friends, with his sneer intact, as always.

At the sight of Gilbert’s face, he groans again, annoyed. He returns to slumping on his seat, head back on the table with his hands covering them, in case Gilbert returns with another glass of cold beer to dump on his head.

Fortunately for Alfred, Gilbert does no such thing and merely cackles, pushing at one of the people on Alfred’s side to sit close to the younger.

He shouts for a refill to one of the barmaids, winking at them and he receives a sneer in return. Gilbert just laughs as he puts his glass out to be refilled. It is a known fact that his arrogance attracts the wrong kinds of people, and no woman would want that close to them.

After he gets a good gulp of his drink, he nudges at Alfred with is glass, knowing that Alfred hated the cold drink against his warm skin.

“What’s bothering you, eh? Hey!”

“Fuck off,” was the mumbled reply, still refusing to remove his face from the table. Undeterred, Gilbert carries on, snickering as his continued poking with his glass of beer worked well in teasing the boy.

“What’s wrong with him this time? _Married_?”

“ _Fuck off!_ ” Gilbert gets a shove this time, spilling his beer all over the boy’s lap, making him jump his seat, cussing at what had become of his trousers. He shoots Gilbert a deadly glare but it only makes the older’s cackles louder, a hand pounding at the table at the sight of what had become of Alfred.

Alfred sighs, aggravated, and steals Gilbert’s drink from his hands, making sure to drink half its contents. Much to his displeasure, Gilbert was unaffected, eyes focused on his lap, “Want Astor to get that for you?”

Gilbert gets a painful shove. “Last time I saw _Astor_ , he was too busy sucking _your_ cock.” Alfred’s words did not reflect the playful smile on his face, and Gilbert returns it with the same intensity when he says, in mock offense, “Hey, he came on to me!”

Alfred snorts. “Right, and the grass is _pink_.”

“ _Shut up!”_ Alfred receives a shove and he shoots Gilbert a satisfied smirk at the sight of his offended ass. Serves the fucker right.

“I commend you for dumping the brat early in the game though; kid sucks like he’s sucking on his mother’s teat.” Alfred scrunches his nose at the mental image it conjured on his mind, and Gilbert couldn’t help but laugh at it.

“But enough about me---“

“--- _for real?---“_ A smack from Gilbert.

“---so, tell me about this boy, yeah?” And just like that, Gilbert was a giggling mess. Alfred groans.

“There’s no boy _this time_!” Alfred swears, Gilbert was worse than young maidens gushing about men they fancy when Alfred is involved. Gilbert finds it hilarious that a boy like Alfred had dreams about settling down somewhere, when _the time is right_. What is wrong with being optimistic? A bright future was why he tries so hard at eradicating the pests of the earth.

Gilbert smacks him in the head. “Don’t lie to me! I used to wipe shit off your ass, I know when you’re bemoaning a boy!”

Alfred smacks Gilbert’s hands away, hissing, “For fuck’s sake, Gilbert, _shut up!_ ” He can feel the heat on his face from embarrassment. He looks around, hoping no one heard, but since it was Gilbert who was talking, it was unlikely. He was just glad that the people around at least pretended they heard nothing.

“You’re exaggerating.”

Scoff. “You think eight year olds don’t get _accidents_?”

Alfred was about to retort when Gilbert cuts him off. “So! About that _boy_ or,” At this he leans forward, whispering “do you want everyone right here hear about my awesome adventure I’d like to call ‘how to raise a hunter like Alfred Jones’, hm?”

“There was no boy!”

Gilbert stands, gathering everyone’s attention. “Everyone, want to hear about one of my awesome adventu---“

“It was two weeks ago, give or take.”

“Yeah?” In Alfred relief, Gilbert stops, waves it off with a hand and everyone goes back to what they were doing, attention away from them. Now that Gilbert’s attention was on him though, it would mean he had to talk.

But it still felt wrong, to say the he was attracted to witch, of all things. But if he didn’t spill, Gilbert wouldn’t stop pestering him all night.

He might as well _lie_. Sort of. The witch was a _boy_ , after all.

“Just saw him…in the woods,” Gilbert’s undivided attention makes him feel uneasy, but the other does not seem to notice and instead gives him encouraging nods, a hand waving at him for more details.

“…doing?”

“Uh, something.”

Alfred gets an unimpressed look.

“Is that really the best you can do, kid?”

“Well, you’re pressuring me!”

“It’s called _encouragement_ and if I’m not amused I’d rather talk about my _awesome adventure_ with these guys instead.”

Alfred had _days_ to replay the scene in his mind over and over again. Be it in the day or in his sleep, the sight of that witch in his dark hood and that face smiling and cooing at supernatural beings like there were harmless pets haunted him. Gilbert was right; he can do better than this.

He takes a mouthful of his drink, momentarily frowns when he notices that it was no longer chilled but swallows it nonetheless and restarts.

“I saw him in the woods, gathering some plants with a couple of friends,” Alfred frowns, “I didn’t get to talk to him.”

Gilbert shoots him a look of disgust. “Ugh, that’s the saddest love story I’ve ever head, ” and then he smiles, “and the shortest.”

His smile went away as easy as it came, his face terrifyingly serious. “Go find him again.” He tells Alfred firmly.

When Alfred says nothing and gives Gilbert a confused look, Gilbert lightly smacks his cheek, “Go find him again,”

“I don’t want this story to end right there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Astor character is an OC, no need to think over who he is or what's his role in this fic bc he'll never show up again. And Alfred's strictly gay, who knew?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Witches are known to have one specific kind of ability, as they call it. These abilities do not come to be because of magic. No, the origin of their abilities are easier to explain than something as irrational and baseless as magic. It’s simple science.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Its friday and I can't believe I just went to an exam unprepared because I literally thought we're only having a "quiz". The paper says "final exam" wtf did that mean that those last 2 I took were exams too??? I THOUGHT THEY WERE QUIZZES? (Its not that I flunk them ofc, but if I atleast knew then I would've put more effort in what I write down...85% sucks man) Also my hand hurts again because I thought I was running out of time...turns out I passed my paper 30 mins early...
> 
>  
> 
> special thanks to [ALittleTooMuch ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ALittleTooMuch/pseuds/ALittleTooMuch)for beta'ing this chapter for me!!

            Prior to Gilbert’s advise, he returns.

Alfred knows that he doesn’t really have to follow Gilbert’s suggestion, no matter how sound the majority of them are. It wasn’t like what Alfred told Gilbert that night was the truth and whether he went or not, Gilbert will be none the wiser. The elder’s motives were always vague, if not eccentric. Francis had always told him to never let Gilbert’s words get to him as a child, as it was his sharpest and most precarious set of weaponry. They never missed their target.

This time was no different.

He didn’t realise that the path he took that night was not as easy as he had remembered.

It took him hours to scour the familiar terrain, to find the certain spot where certain corpses of trees and old life turned and twisted in a way Alfred knows he had seen before.

The long trek into the depths gave him some time to think things over. Harder than he did before, giving his thoughts actual attention instead of outright dismissing them the moment they fabricate in his mind.

The silence would’ve been disturbing to usual travellers, as no forest is ever silent with signs of life scattered from the very ground they step on up to the air they breathe into their lungs.

Silence would mean peril.

But this is the right kind of atmosphere Alfred had been aiming to find.

Amidst the silence, he got to think over what Gilbert had said and done and what Alfred had done in return.

In the end, he wanted this, didn’t he?

To get a glimpse of that witch once more.

Those sleepless nights left Alfred troubled, unsatisfied, and conflicted.

Gilbert’s words that night came to him like a blessing of sorts---a permit, a reason that will not arouse incongruous feelings within him, because Alfred knows, out of everyone that witches are nothing but----

_Vile_

_Malicious_

_Foul_

_\---_ disgusting creatures that are no better than the dirt itself that they step on.

Gilbert told him he wanted Alfred to have closure.

Alfred will see to it that he would.

 

            The pocket watch says it’s a little bit past midnight.

He had arrived too early.

That’s not a problem, though. It would just mean more time for him to prepare.

His gloved hand dips into the soil and it concaves like wet sand, it’s dark remains sticking onto the fine leather, tainting it black. He rubs at it, feels its coarse texture between his covered fingers. A sniff in the air confirms that he was in just the right place.

The whole place stinks of death.

 

            Witches are known to have one specific kind of _ability_ , as they call it. These abilities do not come to be because of magic. No, the origin of their abilities are easier to explain than something as irrational and baseless as magic. It’s simple science.

They were simply called witches as their kind had been known to have existed since the olden times. These were the time when the unexplained were always blamed on magic and supernatural, and so were the witches.

But as time passed by, through science, technologies improve and witches are now prone to death with just a single shot with their specialised bullets.

It was discovered upon dissection and further experiments on captured witches that they do not posses _magic_ , but merely the body to utilise the energy they get from living things.

This energy now manifests into what they had observed were abilities unique to each one of them.

Hunters use the witch’s ability as basis to find its limits and weaknesses, making the hunt easier but still unsafe. Caution is an essential trait a hunter must have if they want to survive, and Alfred knows its importance the most. The burn mark on his chest is a constant reminder of that.

That is the problem though.

Alfred does not _know_ this witch’s ability.

To be able to mingle with the unseen…that kind of ability is unheard of if not rare and if he were to ask himself, he doesn’t truly know how to go with this.

The only choice he has left is kill it when it least expects it, catching it off guard and hopefully it has its defences down, vulnerable to outside attacks and would let the bullet penetrate its skull.

If Alfred fails, it is sad to say then that no one will know of his whereabouts. No one would know of his death until it was long overdue, with no one to find his rotting corpse, if the witch would not choose to feed his body to his supernatural friends.

Then again, if he were to die fighting a witch…

It’s the kind of death he would accept with open arms, to know that he died fighting for what was right, for the better good.

 

            Alfred had decided to start small.

He planted a little trap in the spot right where he had first spotted the witch, hoping for best as he waited by the same tree he had hidden before. Its mechanism works in a way bear traps does, only this one is bigger, meant for human-shaped prey.

A glance at his pocket watch and he knows he’s a few minutes away from the witching hour. He’s so close to getting his prey now that he can’t help but feel the tingle of excitement in his blood, warm and pumping into his system. It makes his vision sharper.

And then it happens.

The air changes and the same thing that Alfred had seen all those days ago unravelled in front of him once again, but this time he is prepared.

When he sees the essence of energy roam the area, he couldn’t help himself but let his fingers brush the thing. It was indescribable. It was solid, yet not; soft but hard; and coarse yet smooth and a little bit of something Alfred cannot name.

It felt like it was that one thing that made this little strip of essence of energy that brings about the change.

He was so distracted following the green strip of energy, entranced as he watched it break away like smoke only to reform again in fascination that when he heard the tell tale footsteps, it startles him, running to climb his tree in a hurry. Once he was up and secured in his hiding spot, he winces at the slight pain in his shoulder. He must’ve pulled at a muscle on his haste. That is not good.

Still, a hunt is a hunt. No slight injury can stop him from finishing what he had started. This witch is his.

Alfred’s eyes widen when suddenly, an animal comes running into his field of vision, running right into his little trap. He almost jumped from where he was hiding, just to make the stupid thing stop because _it’s ruining his plan_. But it was too late; the witch was following not too far behind it, giggling and a bounce in his steps. Calling for the animal. All Alfred can do then was watch with impending doom as the animal---it looks like a horse, save for a horn on its head…a _unicorn?_ \---run right into his trap, activating its mechanism and snapping its sharp teeth on the creature.

Its screams startled the witch it seems, as Alfred sees him stop and shout in terror, that woven basket hidden in his cloak falls into the ground, spilling what looked like plants on the ground like some form of a messy gore. The reds and blues of the flowers reminds him of his previous hunts, their parts splattered on the ground.

The trap was made specifically for weakening witches in a way that it sucks at its energy reserves, rending their kind unable to use their abilities. There are cases that it becomes lethal in witches whose reserves are small that it sucks at their life force entirely, killing them.

It seems like that was the case with this unicorn. It squirmed and whined for a good few moments before finally taking its last breath and falling limp on the ground, leaving the ground beneath and around it covered in its bloody gore that fell from the tears on its flesh from its struggle. The only noise left is the witch’s cries of agony. If Alfred did not see it for himself he would’ve believed that the witch itself was the one that fell into his trap with how hurt his wails had sounded.

The witch falls on his knees upon approaching the creature’s corpse. He pulls his hood off, showing his tear-streaked face and that broken look in his eyes. Lips turned down into a horrible frown, the skin appeared like it was pulled down.

He pulls at the claws, its sharp teeth digging into his skin but he does not seem to mind, intent on pulling it away from the fallen creature. When it was off, the trap closing with a snap like an over-sized clam, Alfred sees the witch pull the unicorn to lie its head into his lap, sees the witch’s shoulders shudder and hear his gasps. The sticky dark blood of the creature darkened his already dark cloak, but the witch does not seem to mind. Alfred hears him whisper things into the creature’s head, kissing it and petting its head, his other hand pulling at the gore around him, stuffing it back from where it had fallen, then trying to close off the torn flesh with his own hand.

It’s a futile attempt at recovery.

Then in an unexpected moment, Alfred sees the glow in the witch’s eyes, his lips twitching into a smile that reflects hope and something like affection. Then the sniffles and tears were gone, replaced with relieved sighs and overjoyed laughs.

A whine.

Alfred hears it.

Then he watches in shock as the creature’s tail starts moving, then its head, turning to nuzzle the witch properly. The witch smiles at this, happy tears leaking out of his eyes, dropping on the unicorn’s face. His hands drop towards the torn flesh---or where they used to be, as Alfred can see from where he is hidden that it is no longer there, despite the blood on its skin.

Wide-eyed, Alfred watches the scene enraptured with fascination.

He had heard of this ability before, but the last time anyone had seen such power was near a century ago.

 _Resurgence_.

It was then that Alfred realises the flaw in his plan: How do you kill something that doesn’t die?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a reason the witches are categorised among the supernaturals...they're prejudiced to be just as bad. Supernaturals are more like a neutral party in this little "war" tho...and are very fond of UK ahaahh
> 
> Resurgence is...yanno. It means rebirth, most specifically, to rise again as something stronger. ...Yep.
> 
> also don't go looking for my nsfw hetalia blog for the time being. I think I just posted a draw of spoilers in there...*furrows brows* maybe
> 
> another thing: fun fact about me: I'm a founder of a new cult that was established....last tuesday. It's a long story and I doubt any of you will ever hear about it because by the time the semester ends I'll disband the thing
> 
> EDIT AS OF 05/23/16: I added draws (by me)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Must be nice to be immortal huh? Had all the time in the world to do whatever the fuck they want.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> these past couple-a-months were a fucking joyride and I'm exhausted. I wrote this MONTHS ago, prolly around may but I uh ehh..yeah

  _The fire was huge._

_It brought their village to the ground in no less than an hour or so, and he remembers walking aimlessly amidst the rubbles, his bare feet wounded and painful with every step. But he doesn’t pay it any mind. He just wanted to see a survivor._

_He can’t be the only one left._

_There had to be someone._

_Then his foot digs into the ashes, warm against his bare flesh from the recent fire. His foot easily sinks into the gray earth, like sand but smoother if not slightly coarse from charred bones. Whatever was underneath the ashes, it was something heavy and sturdy that his foot had failed to lift and he falls instead, on his face again._

_He coughs and hurriedly spits out what ash had managed to get into his mouth, afraid at the thought of having their remains on him. He still refuses to believe that they all had perished._

_But he couldn’t get himself to forget what he had seen. The flames---red and orange and bright. They burn so brightly and how brighter they had become when they devoured his people. His family and friends, devoured whole._

_He couldn’t help but cry again, looking around and screaming for his parents and the rest of his family._

_Silence._

_He tries again, and when nothing happens, the wind blowing harshly at his face, he wipes his face with his dirtied hands, the ashes mixing with the wetness in his eyes and tainting his face grey._

_He presses his hands in the earth, covered with a very thick layer of ash. He presses hard, until his hands were buried, then he felt something warm. No, hot._

_It’s hot._

_And soft._

_In a panic, he jumps and scurries away. Then he notices the black, charred remains that got stuck on his hands, sticking to his skin like rubber. They were definitely human skin._

_Someone is underneath the ashes._

_He runs back to the spot and digs._

* * *

                When Alfred wakes up, he finds himself panting and sweaty on the floor. The pillows and the beddings were thrown away from the bed and the blanket was wrapped awkwardly to his body, its end trailing up towards the bed like a distressed serpent.

He was confused for a moment, wondering how on earth he got into what he is in right now, with the memories of the night---or the morning---before returning to him little by little, slowly, but vividly.

He remembers being frustrated and tired from the trip, returning home with nothing in his hands but himself with the feeling of uncertainty lying heavily in his gut. He remembers returning back to his room by sunrise, the glare of the sun doing nothing but make his head hurt and his mood irritable. His weapons thrown roughly on the floor by the door was a clear indication of that.

For the first time in a long time, he doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know how to act, and doesn’t know what to make of what he had just seen. Everything was new. He wasn’t sure himself if the usual procedure will work and if it didn’t, how will he get out of there alive. There were multiple outcomes running through his head, as he remained in his hiding place, hands shaking and their grips painfully hard.

In the end, he let the witch go.

He watched him, his blood strangely tingling in something he had yet to describe---exalted, perhaps---as the witch coaxed the unicorn into full-consciousness, helped it back to its feet and get its balance back, his eyes sparkling and blinking away shed tears as he does so. The fallen basket was retrieved along with its contents and Alfred notices for the first time that the witch was not accompanied by faeries today, the glowing orbs orbiting around him absent.

Alfred remained in his spot until the witch was gone, his free hand resting on the unicorn’s long white neck, guiding it forward, his eyes darting sharp towards Alfred’s trap, a veil of suspicion and wariness etched upon his delicate features. _That looks bad_ , Alfred thought just after he heard himself gulp, sweat dripping down his forehead to his cheek.

It took an hour or two before the area changed, terrifying with how the trees appeared to have shrunk and withered, the brown turning into black and grey, its wood crusty and hollow and breakable. The ground seemed to suck the life out of the rest of the plants residing on it, their colours dulling and their bodies shrinking into tiny stubs, weak and brown.

His chance was over.

* * *

 

                He finds himself back at the tavern that night, shocked to see Gilbert as well when he thought that the man would have moved on to another place if there was nothing much going on in it.

For once, Gilbert was alone, sitting by the tables located at the dark sides of the tavern for peace and privacy, silently nursing a mug of cool beer---his favourite drink.

Looking around and seeing the tavern’s usual patrons gamble and make noise made Alfred feel exhausted, the energy of the tavern’s patrons actually repulsive rather than appealing.

Silently, he approaches Gilbert’s table and roughly pulls a chair for himself. Gilbert barely reacts, red eyes rolling to meet his. It’s a look Alfred couldn’t read.

To stop Gilbert before the other gets the chance to start a topic of conversation, Alfred blurts, “I want you to tell me everything you know about the resurgents.” His face is grim, if not desperate. The information gathered on resurgents were rare, if not few, with their rarity and all, not to mention how their kind managed to be so elusive throughout the years. Gilbert and Francis are probably the only ones lucky enough to have as much as a close encounter with them to actually provide reliable information: Anything from usual traits to actual weaknesses. Alfred is desperate for anything at the moment. His mind is running in circles, seeking for _anything_ , but his body was not.

In fact, it was still screaming at him to return to his bed to rest.

But his mind was insistent, and it would not allow his body to rest until it gets its own peace, some kind of closure, to reassure Alfred that the witches are still one way or another vulnerable to things such as death.

At the question, however, Gilbert’s sombre expression did not change, eyes glued to Alfred’s still. Then he cups his chin with his free hand, turning away to look towards the window.

“They’re a pain.” He mutters, dismissive, taking multiple gulps of his drink then wipes at his chin when the liquid dripped out. He doesn’t seem as energetic as usual, and it strikes Alfred strange. Somewhat. If he hadn’t known Gilbert for as long as he had, he would’ve accused the man to be bewitched with how out of character he was being. But Alfred knew better.

It was true; Alfred was raised by Gilbert—in a way. He had been there to see Alfred grow from a toddler into an adult, had given him good advice and guidance when it comes to being a skilled hunter. Been Alfred’s some kind of older brother figure in times Alfred needed one.

Gilbert had seen every side Alfred had and Alfred could say for himself that he had seen Gilbert’s as well. Or some of them, considering how old Gilbert truly was. Alfred thinks he could never truly be Gilbert’s equal anyway, with age and experience keeping them apart.

There were times, just like these, that Gilbert suddenly becomes strangely quiet, spending nights and days in taverns to drink by himself. Francis had told him to let Gilbert be when he starts acting strange like this. Gilbert would prefer not to speak and keep to himself with his good beer by his side, company---friendly or not---unwelcome.

Nonetheless, Alfred tries again, “I’m serious, Gilbert.” It’s an emergency, so maybe this will could be an exception.

“Well, so am I. And I’m telling you that resurgents are fucking pains in the ass. Now leave. I’m busy.” Another gulp.

Gilbert’s dismissal and Alfred’s irritable mood and exhaustion fuelled Alfred’s temper.

“What? Busy looking like an aloof asshole as they drink beer by themselves? I don’t think so.”

He hears Gilbert sigh deeply, his brows burrowed deeper than usual and his eyes just as blank as they turn to focus on him again. Gilbert opens his mouth but closes them again not a moment later and simply sighs.

“Just go, Alfred. I’m not in the mood to talk.” He says with a sigh, his shoulders slumping and his head turning down to gaze into his drink.

“It’s just a question, Gilbert, and I need answers _now_.”

Gilbert looks away, “Not now,” his hand waving Alfred off. “Just go sleep or something. We’ll talk later.” Then he takes deep gulps of his beer again.

By “later”, Gilbert meant whenever he manages to get off this strange phase. It could be tomorrow or next month, for all they know. It just added fuel to Alfred’s fire.

“Must be nice to be immortal huh? Had _all the time in the world_ to do whatever the fuck they want.”

At Alfred’s words, Gilbert visibly stilled. He slams the mug hard on the table that it shatters, surprising a barmaid nearby, making her shriek and gather the entire tavern’s attention on them. Alfred knows he had hit a nerve, but he doesn’t feel sorry in the least.

Instead, he continues.

“So what was it? Resurgents are some kind of hunters? They can enslave people with immortality as a leash and make them do anything they want with them with the promise of _death?_ Or was that a permanent thing? You killed a resurgent before, right? Was it the same one who cursed your ass to immortality---“

Alfred crashes to the floor, his cheek burning with pain. He tests out his jaw for injuries, and was glad to find none save for a bleeding tongue when he accidentally bit on them when Gilbert’s fist collided with his face.

He hears a couple of steps, rushing and hurrying towards them and Gilbert growling. He looks up just in time to see Gilbert’s eyes flare dangerously, his eyes burning like how a charcoal would, bright and fierce. His face is red and contorted into anger. His fists were raised and he was coming towards him with such dark intents it surprised Alfred that it only took five strong-looking men to hold Gilbert back.

Then another man comes up to join in when Gilbert manages to slip free, his growls animalistic and his teeth bare as he tries yet again to lunge at Alfred, who remained on the floor in stupor.

“I said I’m not in the fucking mood! What the fuck is your problem, _Jones_!” He roars, the men restraining him shouting for more help when Gilbert managed to throw them off yet again.

Someone helps Alfred up and he hears someone telling him to get out, to leave because they don’t think they can hold Gilbert back any longer.

Still in a daze, Alfred nods and leaves, feeling the ground shake beneath his feet.

In the distance, a few blocks away from the tavern, he hears a gunshot.

He doesn’t hear anything from Gilbert the next day.

* * *

                Three nights later, with no news of Gilbert still, he returns to where he finds the witch frequents.

He comes at midnight, waited until he sees the essence of magic that was definitely generated by the witch’s and hides somewhere he can see the witch better and hear him clearer. He did not bring anything, no weapons nor tools in his person.

Having next to nothing when it comes to dealing with resurgents, Alfred knows he does not stand a chance against it.

Nonetheless, he couldn’t help but be drawn to him.

He waits with bated breath, feeling his eyes shake in their sockets as he watched the familiar essence of magic that he knows belongs to the witch itself. It smells of mint and wet soil and Alfred briefly wonders if the witch would smell the same, of something cool and wet and sweet like morning dew. He wondered if the scent would be stronger if it came from his hair, how those pale locks would feel against his fingers as they card through them. Are they going to be soft and silky or coarse and rigid?

Alfred gets pulled out of his thoughts when he sees him again, walking in that same gait he’s so familiar with by now. He silently marvels at how the witch carries himself elegantly in his dirty old robe, a shade of faded brown, its vibrant colour long gone, showing how frequent it was used and how long it has been owned by the witch. Probably as old as he, Alfred supposes. He doubts the witch is as old as he appeared, if he never left this part of the woods where he is safe and hidden from society.

Well, not that safe anymore, was he? Alfred smiles to himself, feeling the side of his lips twitch up.

He hears the witch mumble to himself, slightly smiling as he pulls at his hood, hiding his face in his hand as he does so. The bright lights are present tonight, running around the witch like a protecting ward, glowing in different, bright colors. Some are bursting with them every once in a while, like exploding stars, but the witch doesn’t seem to pay any mind. In the contrary, he seemed flustered, laughing low in his breath as he shoves  a big ball of glowing red---about the size of the witch’s fist---away when it comes too close to his face.

Then the witch was suddenly walking faster, pushed by another glowing orb behind him and Alfred finds himself following him from a safe distance.

But then his body suddenly slams into something hard and _powerful_ , and then he feels himself falling, sinking down to his back, gasping at the after-shock of energy that coursed through him. He found himself on his back, hands behind him that keeps him from fully lying down across the field of grass, of green---of _life_ —staring wide-eyed and surprised, his chest heaving from his breath being literally taken away.

If it were anything else, any other situation he were put in where a witch to be hunted was involved, he would’ve run and tried his hardest to figure there and then _what just happened_ , but since this was a beginning of Alfred doing new things for something entirely new and almost _untouchable_ , he does what is to be expected in a situation that will suit this one perfectly.

He smiled, followed by a confused exhale of breath that sounded like a laugh, watching the witch’s heavy cloak float gracefully with the cool air, away from him and into the nothingness where the glowing orbs of light has led him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short, but surprisingly enough, it follows the order I set in my head per chapter so I guess that'sgood enough haha
> 
> for some reason, with aph prussia being my weird fave I can't help to have the other half of my brain to fabricate his very own spin-offs of my aus...as you can see (for those who had read my prev works) they arent so prominent, but this one here...you'll get curious.
> 
> But I may or may not write it soon. Because SPOILERS. LOL


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Could he really afford to lose something this beautiful?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a reason this fic is rated Explicit.  
> And its not the sex.

                A sharp smack to the head greets Alfred as he opens his room’s door upon hearing knocks, loud and as sharp as the one that hit him upside the head, enough to shake him off from his deep sleep after returning home yet again with the rise of dawn on his back, from a very recent visit to a certain witch.

Lately, Alfred found himself walking in the middle of the night with nothing on his person but a crisp old coat to save his bones from the chilly air and a good pair of hiking boots as he walk towards a path that is starting to become eerily familiar to him, not to _hunt_ but merely to get a glimpse of that old worn coat and maybe luckily, a glimpse of that face with those bright eyes and that _smile---_

_Smack._

Alfred gets another smack on the head, making him jump and get pulled from his thoughts in an instant. He blinks the haze of sleep in his eyes and rubs at them to hasten the process and finally sees the perpetrator.

He instantly felt a heavy weight fall inside his gut, enough to make him go down on his knees, his legs wobbling. He finds himself silently grateful to have his hands on the doorframe, keeping him from actually doing so at the sight of the man himself, his guardian and mentor, Francis in the flesh. He doesn’t look quite as pleased, his brows furrowed, a scowl pulling down his lips, and his eyes dark and sour as he looks at him straight in the eye.

“Uh, Francis…” Alfred finds himself saying, the words stuck in his throat.

He should have been feeling happy, seeing Francis since god-knows-how-long. It has been years, and now is the perfect time as any---with Alfred feeling at a loss for the first time since he was but a mere amateur, new to hunting and falling off on his rear whenever he pulls the trigger, missing a target entirely and so easy to get killed.

But this is Francis, not some any other mentors Alfred had and out of every one he had, the only one he ever calls his mentor is Francis.

Because, well, its _Francis_. Its not eay to explain.

And since it was like that, if Alfred were to ever see Francis _uninvited_ , it means Francis has something very important to take care of that no one else can.

Or he’s finally heard of what happened to Gilbert a few nights ago.

Just thinking about what Francis may do to him is enough to chill him to the bone.

“Uh,” Alfred pauses, takes a gulp of air before continuing once again, trying his best not to falter under Francis’ gaze. “What brings you here?”

The fact that Francis’ expression is of disappointment and disdain is not encouraging.

Francis raises a hand and runs them through his hair, brushing them off his face with a graceful shake of his head then juts out his hip as he crosses his hands across his chest, an eyebrow rising. He drawls, “What do you think?”

Francis’ obvious distaste towards Alfred right now made Alfred’s nerves trickle with cold dread and he finds himself sinking into himself as he lowers his shoulders and uses the doorframe to shield himself from Francis’ further scrutiny.

It took him a few days to cool off and finally coming into the realisation that he had that night was stupid and _wrong_. Disrespectful, even. Gilbert had been nothing but kind if not occasionally harsh when it comes to poking at Alfred’s side but no matter how overwhelming Gilbert was sometimes he never went as far as Alfred did. Gilbert’s _curse_ was a very sensitive topic, neither Francis or the man himself liked to talk about it and Alfred was probably lucky enough to hear about the truth (or some of it) from Gilbert’s own mouth when Alfred was getting older and getting suspicious as to why neither of his guardians seemed to age like the men around them.

“I’m sorry,” Alfred manages to choke out, eyes darting down to the ground. It makes him feel like a child again, but the thought of what he had caused to make Gilbert act so strange and downright terrifying that night makes him think that apologies weren’t enough.

He hears Francis huff from outside before it was followed by harried footsteps and then Alfred was being pulled out of the door and into the streets, Francis’ tight grip on his collar, pulling him along.

They walk in strained silence, Francis silent and efficient as he strides a few steps in front of Alfred, causing the younger to keep up with the pace or else he falls on his face, with the hand constantly pulling at his collar to keep him off-balance.

He almost falls over once his collar was released, and Alfred looks up with worry when he realises that Francis brought him to a morgue.

He gives his mentor a wary glance, “What’s---“

“It seems that they couldn’t find any other way to placate him,” Francis’ eyes fixed on the building’s entrance with such hate as if it was the cause of his very annoyance at the moment.

At Francis’ reply, Alfred slowly turns to stare at the building, eyes wide and knees shaking once again. _So the gunshot he had heard that night---_

He gulps, feeling cold sweat dribble down from his forehead.

“Gilbert should’ve been awake a few hours after that, but it has been more than a week, and he has yet to show any signs of activity.” Francis continues, seemingly unaware of Alfred’s thoughts.

“His body appears to be still intact; no signs of decay---or so I was told,” Turning his eyes to Alfred as he pulls a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. Alfred finds himself frowning---a mix of confusion and worry etched on his face as looks on, “That’s---“

“He’s doing it on purpose,” Francis grits out as he shoves the paper back in his pocket and strides inside the building, not bothering to knock on the door with his knuckles but instead uses his foot to kick harshly, making the hinges shake and Alfred wince at the violence.

It doesn’t take a while for someone to answer the door, cracking it open gingerly. A wary eye pokes out and from the inside; they can hear a mumble of “Yes?”

“You called for me?” Francis announces, at which the eye widens behind the door and vanishes to open the door completely to let the both of them in.

“Ah, yes, yes! In here, please!” The man behind the door, Alfred figures is the caretaker of the establishment, quite old but still quick as he paces around, leading them both to an empty room, with Gilbert’s body lying on top of a metal table, naked as the day he born and covered with a thin white cloth to keep his modesty.

Alfred shudders at the sight of a large hole where one of Gilbert’s eyes were supposed to be in. The wound appeared fresh, as if it was inflicted yesterday.

This is Gilbert’s corpse.

Alfred felt sick at the sight, a hand clamping his mouth closed as he felt something rise up to his throat. He tried his best not to throw-up, lest he direct Francis’ attention to himself once again, when it had just finally left him to focus on Gilbert’s body, unmoving and _dead_.

“We’re not sure what was wrong, but we took out the bullet right after he was brought here…” The caretaker nervously says as he wrings his sweaty hands, unsure of how to explain---if there was anything---details that Francis may need to know.

Could they have finally ended the curse of a resurgent?

Before the caretaker manages to speak once again, to let his thoughts be heard, Francis cuts him off by raising a hand, dismissing him out of the room to be left alone with the corpse, at which the man gratefully follows with no questions asked.

Once the door was closed shut with a click, Alfred hears Francis sigh tiredly, a hand coming up to knead at the skin between his eyes.

“Gilbert, please stop this madness, the boy meant no harm, _stupid thing that he was,”_ The last words that Francis said were uttered low beneath his breath but enough for Gilbert, perhaps, to have heard. He moves to pull a reluctant Alfred right next to him, to bring close to Gilbert’s body, still a terrifying image of a corpse that barely twitched at the sound of Francis’ voice.

Alfred flinches when he feels Francis subtly pinch at his arm, urging him to speak as well.

Nervously, he steps closer towards Gilbert’s body, his eyes straying towards the gore of disgusting red and black. “I’m so sorry,” He says truthfully, feeling his eyes sting. His voice was too low to be heard but it doesn’t seem to be the case when he feels something cold and heavy land on his head, stiff hand awkwardly ruffling his hair. He doesn’t realise he closed his eyes until he opens them and finds his face right in front of Gilbert, his eye wide open with a crooked smile fixed on his face, the hole still prominent but healing in a rate that is not normal but slowly, in the case of the cursed ones.

Alfred figures that smile was supposed to be comforting, but since Gilbert has remained a corpse for the past couple of days, his body was too stiff to move as they used to at the moment, only enabling him to make a strange grimace instead. Even so, it was enough for Alfred’s eyes to water, and it doesn’t take long for him to be sniffling and gasping, his head lying on Gilbert’s stomach as he wails, hiccupping, “I’m so sorry.”

Gilbert, still unable to properly operate his jaws to speak, merely raises his other arm to cover Alfred’s head.

_I know._

* * *

                “So, where the fuck have you been going to these days?” Gilbert says over a cool mug of beer across the table, free hand waving towards Francis’ direction.

Francis shrugs, both arms resting on the table’s surface with his eyes focused on them. He absently brushes his hair away from his face when they started to fall over like curtains to cover his expression. They seemed brooding, eyes dark and unfocused. Alfred silently watches and listens as his elders attempt at an idle conversation.

Francis doesn’t look like he’s in the mood to engage though and Alfred couldn’t help but notice how the tavern was suspiciously quiet tonight, its patrons and workers trying to go through the regular business but is failing with the way their eyes couldn’t seem to help themselves but linger on their table, the barmaids giving Gilbert strange looks as they refill his glass. Either men on the other hand, doesn’t seem to care, Gilbert going as far as giving the barmaids a wink and a flirty smile when they stare at him too long.

Then Francis sighs, pulling Alfred out of his thoughts and his attention returns to the now.

“What is going on with you, boy?” Francis mutters, lip pursed into a straight line as he turns towards Alfred.

Alfred almost chokes on his drink as he gulps the liquid down his throat to reply, “H-huh? Me?”  Francis’ frown deepens.

“Yes. You.” He turns towards Gilbert. “Don’t you notice?”

“That our little boy has been here for, what, _weeks_ now when there’s obviously no witch around to kill? Yeah, definitely.” Gilbert drawls, a finger started poking Alfred painfully in the side of his head and he flinches upon contact, hand darting towards the pain and turning to give Gilbert a menacing look. The other barely spares him a glance as he downs yet another glass tonight and adds, wiping foam from his lips with the back of his hand, “Why do you think I’m still here?”

Not sure with where the conversation is going, Alfred’s brows furrow. “What are you guys talking about?”

Francis gives him a dark look, confrontational. “Something is going on with you.”

“Definitely.” Gilbert chirps, arm darting up to flag down another barmaid for a refill, his other hand cupping his face as his elbow rests on the table’s surface.

Alfred shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“Something is going on. You are not acting like yourself,” Francis nods to Gilbert that the other returns. The look on to him worriedly now and it’s starting to make Alfred feel nervous. Is something wrong with him?

“For now, we can’t tell what is going on with you, obviously and only you can figure it out it seems.”

“Only…me?”

“Yes.” Francis stands up and prepares to leave, dropping a few silver coins on the table despite not eating or drinking anything. “I’ll be staying here for a few days, go find me once you figure it out. I’ll help you.”

And he’s gone.

Alfred turns to Gilbert, feeling lost once again and afraid. With shaky eyes, he looks on as Gilbert idly drinks; distractedly looking somewhere else that is not Alfred. “What, what does he mean, Gilbert?”

When Gilbert doesn’t respond, he calls again, louder, hand coming up to clutch at Gilbert’s sleeves. “Hey! Gilbert!”

“Help me,” He begs, arms shaking as he held on tighter. Looking for something to grab on to.

Lest he fall.

He was about to cry, knows the tears are but a moment away with how he can already feel his eyes pooling with warm tears when his cold hands were covered by a bigger and warm hand and for a moment he feels like a little boy again in Gilbert’s presence. Always seeking for someone to hold him close.

He looks up, tears falling down as he blinks into Gilbert’s eyes, bright and red and warm.

“You’ll do fine.” He finally says, ruffling his hair.

* * *

                That night, Alfred takes his time to gather his gears. Knives of varying sizes attached on himself, sharpened a few hours ago and guns cleaned and filled with bullets enough to last him for days.

It didn’t took him that long to understand what Francis and Gilbert were talking about, whatever it was that affected him so much that he started to change. Like an entirely different person.

It was that fucking witch’s influence.

With things happening so fast since Francis’ unannounced arrival, Alfred wasn’t able to ask either men for more about the resurgents and if he were to wait any longer for a good time to bring about the topic, he might just be too late.

So with nothing but his weapons and his knowledge on witches he had encountered in his life, he leaves the town.

No more chances.

He’ll kill him now.

* * *

                He arrives later than usual. The surroundings has already warped into life and his pace slows as he carefully steps into the green living grass, careful not to startle any living creatures as to alarm the witch that he knows is nearby. He follows the source of the glowing colourful lights and wasn’t in the least disappointed to see the witch’s form away from him, muttering to himself as he appeared to be pulling at a fresh pile of wild flowers.

He pulls at his machete, the blade making a sharp noise that makes the witch pause. The witch makes a questioning sound as the bright lights that runs around him all dart away and into the dense parts of the woods, leaving the witch alone and vulnerable. There was satisfaction as Alfred realises that those things aren’t interested in the least to intervene and thinks that this may end more smoothly than he had thought.

Then that form finally turns towards him, his eyes glowing beneath his hood as they widen, his mouth widening as if to say something, his arm raised threateningly over himself towards Alfred and before the witch could do more, he strikes.

The witch screams in pain as the blade comes in contact with his arm, slicing through his fingers and cutting his hand in half, the half with his ring and little fingers falling into the ground not far from the witch. Alfred barely spares the fallen limb a glance as he strikes again, followed by the witch’s scream of pain and _fear_. He loses himself in the sounds as his arm move by itself, up and down it goes, the blade striking every part of the witch until the screams turn into whimpers and deep breathes, the witch’s face not as pale as they used to anymore, red as it was drenched with blood. His limbs were scattered on the ground like obscene flower petals, red and damp. Alfred absently thought he must’ve cut through the witch’s stomach as his eyes run along a long pink pile of flesh, the witch’s functioning yet weak hand trying to grab at it, pulling it close to his open wound. An attempt to heal itself.

Unknowingly, he approaches the pitiful remains of the witch, his breaths starting to become faint and shallow as time wears on and steps on the pile of organs, crushing the witch’s hand as he does so. The witch grunts and that is all he seems to be capable of doing anymore and grunts again when Alfred’s boot twists and adds more pressure.

Alfred watched the witch take its last breath, eyes wide and dull as they look at his own hand, crushed beneath Alfred’s foot.

At this point, Alfred’s supposed to be hauling the witch’s body by now to be presented as a trophy. It’s over.

It’s supposed to be over.

Then why is he hearing the witch sob? Whimpering as its entire body quivers.

He seemed to be in pain.

Alfred kneels down to see the witch’s face properly, see his white teeth clank together as he bites at his own tongue then scream as he tries to pull at the hand that remained underneath Alfred’s foot. Alfred raises his foot up, watching in curiosity at how the witch will react upon doing so and wasn’t in the least disappointed to see it be pulled back, watch the exposed bones to repair itself and be buried back into the flesh.

The chopped limbs, unlike what Alfred had expected, weren’t reattached but instead were grown back. It started with the reconstruction of bones, followed by nerves then by muscles and blood and skin. The process took longer than the simple healing process the witch’s broken hand did and Alfred let it happen as he watched on with morbid fascination. He had never seen someone heal like this before. Not even on Gilbert or Francis.

The process seemed painful. The witch’s pained sobs and grunts at every regeneration was proof enough.

It seems like the witch wouldn’t be dying anytime soon. Whatever approach Alfred will come up with will be for naught.

Resurgents truly are magnificent beings, Alfred thought, eyes aglow, lips gaping open like a child seeing a new toy in years.

Could he really afford to lose something this beautiful?

The witch’s grunts gets cut off with a yelp, then he grunts again and continues to sob as Alfred turns him on his back, numerous parts of his body has yet to fully grow back, his head barely hanging on his body with the skin of his neck. He witch gasps in pain as he was suddenly penetrated, his chest heaving at the feeling of being filled and crushed at the same time.

Above him, Alfred’s body trembles, taking pleasure in the heat and tightness that engulfs him. The witch’s blood-soaked and pained face more than enough to keep him going and he does. He takes one experimental thrust, then another when it pulled a desired reaction from the witch below him.

It didn’t take long for Alfred to come with a surprised gasp, shocked at how the image below him made him lose control so much. Then hurriedly, he bites into his wrist until the taste of coppery blood invades his senses, not bothering to use a knife at this point when his limbs feels so numb and takes the witch’s fully healed hand in his, doing the same, the witch groaning below him as he does so. He then spill his own blood into the cut and immediately, his crest carves itself into the witch’s flesh, they glow momentary on both the witch’s wrists like a leash and then it’s gone as if they never were there to begin with.

He releases a relieved exhale in knowing that he wasn’t too late with the ritual for it to take effect. He was supposed to do it _during_ the fucking but he got too…into it he almost forgot.

Catching his breath, Alfred looks down at the witch on time to see the hole on its stomach to patch itself clean, any signs of Alfred’s blade gone as if it never happened. Then it starts to bloat, its organs slowly growing back in their rightful places and the witch below him trembles as it does so, the muscles on his stomach tightening and his chest heaving. His head remained partially unattached. It seems like it would be the last to be recovered.

Panting, Alfred raises his wounded arm towards the witch’s face, intent on brushing some of its blood off its cheek. He then peers close into its face, unable to see the strange glow in its eyes with the witch eyes pinched closed in pain, he mutters with a breathy voice, “You’re mine.”

* * *

                Francis volunteered to accompany Gilbert up to the border of the town despite his disapproval on Gilbert’s decision to leave, with Francis being here now; Gilbert doesn’t think his presence is needed anymore.

Francis seems to think otherwise.

“Are you sure you’ll be leaving now?” Francis worriedly asks Gilbert, watching the other as he hitches up his travelling bag higher on his back. Gilbert turns and gives his friend a smile that fails to alleviate the worry on Francis’ face.

“Alfred will need us,” Francis adds, intent on making Gilbert stay. Gilbert shook his head in apology.

“I really ought to leave.” Looking at Francis up and down, he continues, “You’ll do fine on your own, I think.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Laughing at myself bc Gilbert. LOL  
> For immortal characters, I sure can fuck them up without killing them huh.
> 
> I think I need to work on Burning's spin off...I really wanna write Gilbert's tragic backstory™


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This is proof that you are mine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for vomiting. Nothing graphic. Just some vomit.

                For the past few days, Arthur has noticed that something is different with the faeries.

They act almost the same, talking in riddles and saying things that makes Arthur feel hopeful and flustered. Be it about the world beyond his home or his _true_ _love_ that the creatures had been talking about ever since he came into their lives. Despite it all, he can tell that there’s something off about them. Something has changed, that he knows but whenever he asks, they always say, giggling amongst themselves, “It’s not time yet.”

The supernatural creatures, including the folk, are hated by the humans as badly as Arthur’s kind is and from an outsider’s point of view, it would come as a surprise that the faeries, as fond of Arthur as they are, does not have any intent on helping him out in the matter at hand.

Willow had just fallen into a trap that was probably set for Arthur.

He knows he lives too far away from civilization to have anything as close as a _hunter_ of all things to find him but the strange device that was charmed to absorb energy was something worth of his worry. The shock of almost losing Willow at that time momentarily took his thoughts away from the device and instead took Willow back to his home; away from the terrifying machine.

By the time the thought comes back to his mind and he returns to further inspect what kind of symbol was etched on its steel frame to look into it, it was gone. The telltale marks of another person taking it away was enough to force Arthur to remain in his home for some time, afraid to leave lest whatever it was that was roaming the borders of his home find him.

Looking back to it, he never felt this vulnerable even within the borders of his own home. He swore he could always feel a presence from the woods, glowing eyes between the dark trees that watches his every move and vanishes as soon as Arthur turns his eyes towards them.

Even merely tending to his garden became a dreaded chore. Arthur had started to feel its presence stronger sometimes around his very own house, hands running on the walls and eyes peeking into his window. Sometimes he would swear he had seen a shadow looming above him as he sleeps on his bed, hear rustling of foliage and plants nearby when he decided to peek out through the window, as if there was somebody who was running away from being caught. These things only made him more fearful to leave.

Arthur feared that one day whatever it was that was roaming around his house would finally reveal itself and _get him_.

When he begged the fae for guidance, they merely laughed at him and coaxed him out of his hiding, singing “It’s not time yet.” They laughed harder when he told them of his paranoia, told him he was being silly and that there is nothing to be afraid of.

It was merely a trial, they sang.

He has yet to understand what they meant but he followed anyway, trusting the beings that helped him once and brought him to this safe enclosure that he now calls his home.

And they were right, in a way. So far, it has been days since he was coaxed out of his home and there has yet to be another disturbance, no strange machines hidden in the ground to pull at Arthur’s energy or harm his friends. Aside from the faeries singing around him “It’s not time yet,” once more not a little after he was coaxed out of his home, everything seemed to return to normalcy and he’s at ease once again.

Later on, he would come to realise that he had spoken too soon.

It happened on the most regular of days, Arthur was out during the hour where the energy around him is giving more than he can take, with the faeries dancing around him for company as he gathers more wildflowers for the medicine he’s trying to brew for Willow who is still recovering from the trauma.

Then all of the sudden, the faeries fall into a fit of giggles and started pulling at each other away from Arthur and towards the innermost part of the border, leaving him behind. Arthur looks up in surprise, doesn’t know what came upon the faeries’ minds to decide something so strange in the middle of nowhere. They aren’t this whimsical before.

Then he sees a dark figure looming over him and he turns his back in time to see a person---a complete stranger---with a blade raised and pointed towards him, threatening to strike down. On instinct, Arthur’s blood started burning under his skin as it calls the energy of the earth around him, then before he could pull at the stranger’s energy to command it like his own, the blade strikes down, eliciting a pained scream from Arthur’s lips.

He watches in shock as half of his hand falls on the ground, his other hand flying towards his injured one, squeezing his wrist at the pain and trying his hardest to stop the wound from bleeding out,  eyes wide as he watches the blood run freely from the wound.

Then he grunts as he feels another strike towards him and after that, everything became a blur. He doesn’t remember when he stopped screaming because of the pain and instead just to know if he’s still living despite it all. He can’t feel anything anymore and can only hear the blade as it continued to hack his body into pieces. He wonders how long it would take for his body to die, just to have this… _hunter_ leave him alone.

Then he felt a dull pain explode on his uninjured hand. He felt his bones break before the darkness Arthur had been waiting for comes and he happily accepts its hand for the momentary state of death it will put him in. The pain of returning back to the living, he’ll think about that later when that happens. He hopes it won’t take as long and painful as it did before.

He was hacked to pieces.

 

                When he comes to, he realises he was sobbing, his throat feeling sore and his voice coarse as he gasps for his breath. It was his first breath of life and immediately, he almost drowns at the energy his body absorbs from the earth, channelled into his very being, his veins.

He doesn’t have the time to think about how much time had passed between the death of his body and its revival when the pain of his body attempting to heal itself finally came through. He can feel his bones extending, his muscles quivering and his blood flowing. The pain of it regenerating and the pain of his flesh exposed in the air were too much, always too much, no matter how much he had come to expect them and he cries.

At some point, he remembers that he forgot to breathe. The strange emptiness he felt in his stomach enough to make him sick and in so much pain. His body’s processes were being prevented from executing without the organs in question to keep the process going and when they have finally grew back, his lungs had to regenerate once again. More pain for him to endure.

His entire body hurt.

Then something in the middle of it all, amidst the haze of pain and magic, _something_ happened.

He couldn’t explain what it was or why it had occurred, the sensation wholly foreign to him but whatever it was, brought down something heavy and scorching hot like flames in Arthur’s blood. It affected the magic that flowed in his body and he did not like it.

They felt like heavy chains.

 

                Everything went by like a haze and when Arthur finally comes to, he finds himself jumping up from his bed.

His heart was beating loudly in his chest and his blood was pumping at a speed that makes his head pound. Everything feels too quiet and the same time deafening, he can a sharp noise from his ears that indicates silence. His vision is still blurry.

It took him a while to get his bearings back, find himself back in reality and the world to stop looking so tilted. It makes him feel like he’s still back in his own head, drowning in memories that he isn’t sure had actually happened. He absently runs his hands all over himself and strangely remarks that his clothes weren’t in anyway destroyed, contrary to what his mind was still reeling from.

He remembers being hacked to death. He remembers his body dying.

He remembers his blood burning, his magic being scorched.

Like it was being branded.

Arthur inhales, closing his eyes. Focusing on nothing but the energy in his surroundings he calls them upon himself, coaxes them to use his body as another pathway to pass through. It wasn’t meant to do anything but allow Arthur to taste the essence of magic from his surroundings, simply using his body as some sort of medium to convert energy into magic and back into energy once again, to be returned to where it had came from. It’s a simple exercise Arthur has learned throughout the years to never fail to calm him down.

At the smallest of amount of energy that tried to penetrate---

He hisses.

His blood boils, burning hot.

It was a kind of burn that he had never felt before.

It left his hands numb and his wrists down to his elbows stinging strangely in pain. It felt like his veins were on fire and they hurt every time he tries to move his fingers. Every pull at his tendons a stinging ache. It made him hiss then gasp when he forgets that energy is still trying to enter his body and still failing, causing him nothing but pain. They hurt to the point that he finds himself falling back to bed, curling his body around his arms, his palms up and open, exposed to the air. They hurt so much.

Then he sees it.

Sigils, its shade a mix between red and blue as they glow on either of his arms, wrapped tightly like a coiled tail of a snake. It feels like it tightens every time he tries to coax magic in or out his body, making him grunt in pain each time. They appeared like they were _carved_ into his skin, the cuts deep, blood slowly dripping down from the cuts the more Arthur forces himself to defy what the sigils are so bent on keeping him from doing: magic.

Despite the pain, he continues; urging magic to flow through his veins and grunting every time the pain on his arms increases exponentially, blood flowing down from the lines of the sigils, dampening his white sheets red.

“You’re stubborn, aren’t you?”

Arthur was startled as he heard a voice, low and silent, pierce through the darkness and he jumps up on his bed, sitting up and head turning towards the source of the voice. He squints through the darkness, trying to make out anything in his darkroom until his eyes finally adjust to the darkness and he was finally able to see an unwelcome guest, resting on one of his wooden chairs by his dining table in the next room.

Arthur can easily make out the silhouette of a man, one of his legs raised to rest its ankle on his knee and an arm resting on the table’s surface. His eyes were bright like fire as they appeared to glow, beckoning Arthur in with false promises of hope.

Then he remembers why he was feeling so out of sorts today. He wasn’t supposed to be at home. He was by the border, picking some wild flowers for a friend, the faeries suddenly finding it convenient to leave Arthur alone and vulnerable and then a man with a blade hacked him to death.

The memory was still fresh in his mind that he swore that he can still feel the sharp metal cut into his flesh like paper. Cut through his bones like it was nothing. He started to involuntarily shake on his bed, the air suddenly so cold that it affects the blood that was coursing through his veins. Shakily, he raises a hand to slowly run them around his neck, expecting to feel a scar to remind him of the cut that was not there.

Tongue quivering, he manages to mutter, “It was you, who…” _cut me down._

The man tilts his head at the words, turning his ear towards him to listen better and remains silent.

When Arthur hears neither a yes or no, he raises both his arms, turning them over to reveal the sigils, still glowing and hot on his skin like a brand, blood dripping from the lines. His arms shook as he raises them high enough to be visible for the man in the other room who remained sitting on his chair to see, looking at Arthur through his bedroom’s open door.

“You did this to me.”

Silence.

Somehow, the silence does nothing but make Arthur’s head spin with confusion, too many questions popping into his head. The whos and the whats and the whys.

“What, what are these?” He adds emphasis to his arms by shaking them lightly, his voice trembling. Knowing nothing makes him feel weak and powerless.

It scares him.

When the other once again refused to give him an answer, he started screaming, his voice pulling at his throat like claws as he does so.

“Answer me! Why did you do this?”

In an instant, he finds himself laying on his back on the bed, the man hovering over him with one of his knees pressed painfully into his chest, prodding sharply, making him gasp for air and grunt in pain. When he was about to push the other man away, intent on pulling at his magic once again, a strong hand shoots up to wrap itself around his neck at which he raises both of his arms to pull them away. He jumps when something got jabbed into the bed, a few centimetres from where his head was.

It was a knife.

When his body stopped moving, trying to get the other man off him, his neck was released but before he got the chance to recover, the hand darts out to grab a fistful of his hair, using it to turn his head towards the man over him, his eyes glowing as they stare him down. Arthur fights the urge to look away, his eyes shaking from their sockets.

The man leans closer until they were almost nose-to-nose, eyes still locked on Arthur’s. His free hand catches one of Arthur’s arms, making him tense when it grips too hard, his thumb running across the lines, dragging Arthur’s blood with it. He pulls Arthur’s hand up towards them until its close enough for Arthur to see.

“This,” He begins with a low growl, “is proof that you are mine.”

Arthur frowns, glaring at the symbols on his arm. This has got to be some kind of joke. There is no way this… _thing_ can actually bind him.

He turns his head back towards the man over him. For the nth time that day, he summons the energy from the surroundings into his body, ready to call forth magic and prove this man wrong. It has been a long time since he had last used his power in such a destructive way and whenever he does it, he still find it wrong and terrifying---to have the power to decide on who lives and who dies---but now, his safety is at stake.

He had to defend himself.

He was told a long time ago that there is nothing wrong with his magic as long as it was for defense. He wasn’t the one who hurt first.

He was about to open his mouth, to command the energy from the man’s body when suddenly the man above him laughs. He smiles down at him, eyes aglow with uncontrollable glee as he flashes Arthur a toothy grin. He was grinning so hard his jaws are clenching tightly.

“Do it.”

Arthur gasps in surprise, inhaling deeply through his nose. His voice faltering, he manages to squeak out, “W-what?”

The man’s grin seemed to grow wider, his grip on Arthur’s hair getting tighter and Arthur winces. If he grips it any tighter he might start to bleed.

"I said, do it,” He answers, face leaning closer towards Arthur’s that he can almost taste the man’s breath on his lips.

“See what happens.” The grip on his hair and arm tightens.

Arthur can feel his breath quickening, every inhale and exhale noticeable and he knows that the other man can feel the tremors in his chest as Arthur swallows and licks his lips. Trying to taste the words on his tongue before uttering them, finally.

“Return to---“

Arthur’s words were cut short when he started choking. Then he gasps, tears threatening to drip from his eyes as he feels tearing pain from all over his body. Wide-eyed, his eyes roll towards his arm that the other man still holds up for him to see, the sigils glowing brighter and hissing, burning deeper into his skin. So Arthur was right, after all.

This is a brand.

He was branded.

It appears that the man over him has noticed Arthur’s realisation, as he chuckles in amusement, the sound low in his throat. He finally---finally!---lets go of his hair and lets his arm drop above Arthur’s head as he begins to bury his face on the crook of Arthur’s neck, inhaling sharply as he does so that it makes Arthur shudder.

“Gods, you’re something else. Do you really say stuff to make your magic work?” Arthur stiffens as the man’s hand returns to his head, but surprising enough, it only settles its palm over his hair, fingers brushing messy locks of hair before slowly running down to his shoulders, then to his arm at his side until it settles on his waist, warm and heavy.

Fear returns to him like a wave when he feels something wet and warm touch the skin on his neck, the hand on his waist going lower to grasp at his thigh. Stroking him.

He starts to panic when the man suddenly stands up for a moment to straddle him, strong legs settling on either of Arthur’s thighs to keep him from running away. When he tries to stand up to push him off, his arms were grabbed and he chokes down a sob when he felt fingernails bury themselves deep into the cuts, pulling more blood out of the wounds.

“Don’t you dare _defy_ me.” He growls at Arthur, the sigils on either of Arthur’s arms glow accordingly.

“Don’t do this,” Arthur manages to say, his throat felt so tight right now because he’s fighting back tears. The man above him barely gives his words any notice, snorting as he smiles down at him in amusement. Arthur felt like sobbing for real now because of the fear. He still doesn’t know what is going on, who this man was and how he had come across Arthur’s home. He’s not supposed to find this.

No one is supposed to find Arthur here.

But he did and whatever he was did not only attack Arthur out of nowhere, he also came and intruded his home and had Arthur branded like some kind of witch.

Arthur’s breath hitches.

“You,” He gasps out. The other stills at Arthur’s words, waiting for an elaboration, as if he had already known what Arthur was about to say. It takes Arthur a while before he manages to pull out more words from his throat, his laboured breathing starting to make everything so hard.

“You’re a _hunter_.” Instead of replying, the man in question only smiles, his lips slightly quirking up.

He blinks slowly as he tries to recover as fast as he could from the dreaded realisation, a tear drops from one of his eyes.

Of all things that could slip into his home, it just had to be _them_. Of course, he was a hunter. Only hunters could do something so vile like enslaving people. Because no matter what others may call Arthur, he’s still a person.

He’s a human being.

Suddenly he remembers the very reason why he had ran and chose to live with the supernatural away from human civilization.

Human beings are cruel. Sinister. Way horrible than the witches and the supernatural they all refer to as monsters. He didn’t do anything to them, going as far as to stay away from them yet it was they who went all the way _here_ to _get_ Arthur.

At this point, Arthur was reduced to nothing but a shaking, wet leaf. He would’ve probably wet himself on the spot if he could from fear. When the man only smiled down at him, eyes glowing bright once again, causing Arthur’s marks to burn and bleed some more, he let the tears fall.

It only seemed to amuse the hunter, unfortunately.

 

                For the first time in a long while, Arthur was powerless once again.

He couldn’t do anything from the ministrations when every time he tries to push the hunter away he was smacked or kicked painfully. At some point, he remembers getting a bone broken.

At least that gave Arthur some time to breathe because the sight of a disfigured limb had the hunter stopping, his hands suddenly gentle on Arthur’s injury.

That is, until he saw it recover, watch the bones realign itself and bring them back anew.

He doesn’t seem to show any ounce of restraint in using his strength anymore after that.

He tears into Arthur’s tunic, hands running down his pale skin. “A-agh, ah!” Arthur groans when the hunter started dragging his nails down, pressing harder just to see threads of red appear on his pale skin. The hunter’s piercing blue eyes focused on Arthur’s face all throughout the ordeal.

Arthur shudders when he felt something hard press against his thigh, then gasping once again when the hunter starting humping him. The hunter’s hands reaches for his trousers, tearing them open and pulling it off his legs.

By the time he got his voice back, his legs were already spread open. Arthur was powerless against the strong arms gripping his thighs with bruising strength. His breath hitches at the intensity of those eyes between his legs, the hunter’s mouth partially open as he openly stares Arthur down, his breathing as laboured as Arthur’s at this point, but was probably for a different  reason.

Then the hunter puts his own fingers into his own mouth, sucking on them as his eyes remained its focus on Arthur’s nether regions.

When he was satisfied, he brings his wet fingers down Arthur’s entrance, slowly circling it at first then pushes them in.

From this angle, Arthur couldn’t tell how many fingers the hunter had started with but it still wasn’t wet enough to be comfortable or small enough to not make him feel so full and pained. The hunter didn’t even bother to wait for Arthur’s body to adjust, thrusting his fingers in and out already in such speed and strength that has Arthur gasping and groaning, his hands, having nothing to hold on to, grips into the sheet below instead. His legs started to quiver between the hunter’s hips, still uncomfortably stretched out since Arthur wouldn’t dare wrap them around the other man and give him the satisfaction.

He tenses and whimpers when the hunter finally hits his sweet spot. He grips at the sheets below him harder and bites his tongue, hoping that the other hadn’t heard him.

Much to Arthur’s luck, he did. He suddenly pulls out his fingers that now Arthur can tell were four, then gripping his thighs to spread his legs open, he leans forward until his forehead touches Arthur’s, now damp with sweat. The hunter’s breath seemed to have now returned to normal, unlike Arthur’s that had gone faster by the time the hunter pulled his fingers out.

Arthur grunts, teeth clacking closed as the hunter’s fingers find its way to Arthur’s lips, forcing them open and demanding for entrance. He frowns when Arthur’s teeth insisted to remain tightly closed, jaw tightening as his hand grips at Arthur’s chin, pressing hard until Arthur’s mouth is forced open. Arthur almost chokes as the fingers were immediately shoved inside, blocking his airway. Tears started to fill the sides of his eyes as he fights back the want to gag.

He’ll throw up.

Then those fingers reached down deeper into his throat, brushing his uvula.

Arthur turns his head away on time as he vomits on the bed, nothing but stomach acid comes out and they drip onto his cheek: sticky, wet, and uncomfortable. As he turns his head to the other side to cough and breathe in air once again, he started crying. The humiliation was too much.

“What are you crying for?”

Arthur shudders when a warm hand grips at his erection, calling Arthur’s attention to it.

“See this, you _like_ it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like what I said before in my fic, “When madness comes”, hunters---some, not all---were able to conjure some teeny-tiny magic and use it to bind witches to themselves. Magic is hella complicated in this AU so only very skilled hunters can do it. It literally binds the witch’s souls to theirs, so no witch can defy a hunter that has their sigils on them. Every sigil is unique to the hunter who casted them on, because it literally serves like a fingerprint. Idk. Basic rule is no witch can kill their master without killing themselves, or getting hurt.
> 
> Hunters of course, enslave witches because it makes hunting so much easier. I mean, you can just order witches to fight in your place. Alfred can do that too, obviously, but he’s too prejudiced to let even one live. And that’s offensive. For Alfred, anyway. Why rely on your greatest enemy’s help when you can do it?
> 
> IMPORTANT STUFF: arousal is not the only reason men get erections. “Morning wood” in fact, is due to a full bladder pressing on the prostate because you can’t exactly feel the need to piss much when you’re asleep right? Also adrenaline. It’s why men are can also get raped by women. Their dicks CAN get hard when they are scared. It’s adrenaline.
> 
> (now I'm gonna go back to being sad. Real life is such a dick)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We left Arthur.”
> 
> “They already got him. If we want to live, we run.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nine. Like, the number that pretty much describes my entire being. Like seriously. The letters that made up my name equates to nine, my fucking birthday equates to fucking nine. Heck, I was the ninth honourable mention on my graduating highschool class. Even in fucKING TAROTS, 9 KEEPS ON POPPING UP.  
> I just have grown to fucking hate that number, okay?  
> I mean, look. How many months did it take me to write the ninth chapter for burning? A lot.  
> And all I spit out is this.  
> I actually had half a mind to just…erase the whole thing. Like everything. This fic will be my downfall.  
> I wanted to ask my sister or cousin for some third-party opinion but our schedules don’t match.  
> I say, fuck everything. I’m the writer. This is what it’s supposed to be, my other self told me. I said, alright, sure.

                _It was dark and cold by the time they had lost the mob._

_Alfred finds himself panting and crying, Francis’ grip on his arm firm and tight. The teen’s long, bony fingers are wrapped around Alfred’s wrist like a tight leash, no intent of ever letting it loose, to let Alfred’s limb breathe._

_“Francis…Francis…” The boy pants out, tears streaking the sides of his face, almost dried for how long he had been crying, his throat hoarse from the duration he had screamed the first time they ran._

_He turns his head momentarily back, hoping to see some light or to hear any more of the shouts and screams that gave chase to them, hungry for their blood to soak the plaza red._

_“Not now, keep running.”The teenager huffs distractedly, his tone cold and scolding._

_The boy gets tugged hard for his troubles, but he persists, “We left Arthur.”_

_It took Francis a while longer to answer that the child had thought that he wasn’t heard to begin with until he says, swallowing, “They already got him. If we want to live---” he pauses to a complete halt, almost choking on his own words._

_Alfred blinks when the teen’s steps start to slow into a walk and Alfred manages to finally catch up, walking beside the older. He glances up into the teen’s face and notices how red and wet the other’s eyes were as well, just like his._

_Francis swallows again, throat bobbing before he continues where he left off, “We run.”_

_Alfred, young as he was, could not do anything else but reply, his free hands rubbing his eyes clean as he cries anew, walking along the other, “But Arthur…”_

_“…Arthur…”_

 

                “Arthur.”

Alfred groans out, arms stretching until they successfully feel something warm. It stiffens in his hold as Alfred drags it close to his chest, inhaling deep as his nose touch the soft strands of hair. It smells like rain and dirt and Alfred finds it all the more pleasant when it stank with sweat and his own come.

Then it trembles as Alfred lets his fingers comb through the soft, silky locks and that was when Alfred finally decided to open his eyes, dark and tired.

“Stop squirming.” It grunts when Alfred’s grip on its hair tightens, pulling some strands off the scalp.

He wraps both of his arms tight around its torso, to keep it still as he turns his eyes towards the windows, slightly ajar to let some of the moonlight pass through the night prior. With some of what seems like sunlight leaking out the opening, Alfred assumes that the sun has now risen.

He clicks his tongue. He’s not supposed to stay for too long but apparently, he had slept throughout the night.

Slowly, he rises, peering down at the witch’s bare form next to him. He observes in disappointment that the bruises and teeth marks he left on its pale body were all gone, like he had never touched him to begin with. The only proof that remained were the dried blood staining the sheets below them, a shade of an ugly brown and the bits of caked blood on the witch’s body, most clustered on his neck, where Alfred continued to assault all night with his teeth, flat and firm, aggressively persistent to bury themselves into the soft, pale skin.

The witch’s eyes were closed, its breathing relaxed and normal unlike how Alfred had expected it to be, meaning that the other is asleep still. It never stopped to faze the hunter how the witch had remained to be such a heavy sleeper after all the things Alfred had done to the other that would definitely make a person more attentive to their own surroundings.

It’s stupidity, he thinks. The witch has no clue on how to survive, is what he had come to, with its ability to continuously regenerate every wound and injury as well as to revive its own body without the need to will itself to do so. It works like a programmed machine.

Once it dies, the only possible action left to do is to revive itself.

The body next to his trembles once again and Alfred runs his palms along the witch’s body, from his back up to the nape of his neck, noting how cold the skin is. The witch is chilled to the bone, is the reason why it had been trembling and squirming to begin with. Alfred’s little punishment was uncalled for, a part of his brain thinks but another part rebukes that such thing doesn’t matter because witches are less than humans.

They don’t deserve to be treated as one.

Alfred wasn’t supposed to be sleeping with it as much as he does. One time during the binding was enough, it wasn’t even supposed to be consensual of all things. It all breaks down to domination. Asserting your power over the weaker one, announcing the loss of their freedom.

He shakes his head, blurring out the muddled thoughts in his head. He runs a hand through his hair to mess them up, silently wondering if he’s still got time left to meet with Francis to go out hunting together later this afternoon.

The trek out the woods will be difficult---not as much as before, but it’s still difficult on an average day.

He pulls a thin blanket over the witch’s body, thinking that it would probably do little for the chill, the house being unbearably cold at nights if the witch forgot to put fire in the fireplace in his tiny common room. Alfred wonders if the witch ever owned something thick, like wool for himself. Someone with all skin and bones like this one doesn’t seem likely to survive in the cold.

His body most likely dies from the cold, Alfred thinks cruelly.

He drags the blanket over the witch’s shoulders, hears him release a breath of relief at that that Alfred pointedly ignores as he slowly gets up from the bed, careful to shake the witch awake. He shuffles on the floor for a good minute, looking for his discarded clothes scattered along with the witch’s---all crumpled and ruined unlike his.

He shrugs them all on and prepares for the door, not until he spares the witch’s slumbering form a last glance before he leaves the little house to go back home, his hands ready to reach for his weapons anytime, prepared for any random woodland—supernatural or not---creature to jump at him and aim for his neck.

It had happened far too many times for him to stay lax in such a place.

First was the unicorn, its horn sharp as it charged into him, head-first. Luckily for Alfred, it was plain stupid. Whined and stomped its foot on the ground until the earth broke underneath its stomps, obviously giving Alfred time to prepare himself for the upcoming assault. Its big mistake before it met his sharp blade.

He could’ve shot it in the head and be done with it without much effort, but he thinks the witch needs some reminding that he cannot easily be killed. Directly or otherwise.

He remembers dumping that head on the witch’s feet not a few days ago, as a greeting.

The reaction it incited did not bore him in the very least.

His cries followed him up to the witch’s bed, until he’s raped and beaten into unconsciousness.

 

                As Alfred had expected, Francis has left without him.

He came into the older man’s room to find it locked and void of his presence. He went down to check the innkeeper and to hear that Francis had left as early as the sun’s rise, barely had time to tell the innkeeper of his whereabouts as he dumps a generous sum of coins on the counter, asking for an extension for his stay as he all but hurries on his way out to the door.

Something about the witch being a sun-eater, the innkeeper tells Alfred.

“He also sounds angry about you,” They add, giving Alfred an apologetic look.

Alfred closes his eyes when the innkeeper’s hand, old and heavy, lands on the top of his head, messing his hair as they peer up at him, their eyes dark and heavy as they say, “He’ll forgive you, I can tell.”

_You don’t know him._

_Francis is a liar._

_He’s not that kind of guy._

There are a lot of things he can say to the innkeeper right now, about Francis’ character. About how unforgiving the man is, that the way he berates and scolds and pulls at Alfred’s ears isn’t endearing, that he’s not the best parental figure out there and that Alfred is all but terrified of what Francis will be once he returns from what most likely will be a successful hunt in a few hours’ time but he keeps his tongue in place. He winces at the counter, his eyes squinting and it makes the innkeeper chuckle, thinking of his expression as endearing. It reminds them of their grandson, who went to another town a few years ago to get married, they once told him and it shows when they all but pulled out a sweet from their pocket, wrapped in a cloth.

“Here, take it.” They smile at him.

Alfred stares at the sweet on their palm, round and dotted with chocolate. He smiles gratefully at them before gingerly taking it.

The innkeeper smiles when he takes a bite and tells him to go back to his room for a while. Rest.

“I think I will,” Alfred replies.

The sweet settles unpleasantly in the pit of his stomach, heavily and toxic.

 

                Alfred wakes to the sound of soft raps on his door.

Behind it, reveals Francis, an unpleasant look on his face and Alfred couldn’t help but cautiously use the door between them as a shield as he looks the man over.

He’s all cleaned up, no visible injuries on his person for Alfred to take notice of.

He winces, rubbing the back of his head. “How did it go?”

“Well.” Francis drones. He sounded like he’d rather talk about anything but the hunt right now. Alfred winces at his own horrible mistake.

“You want to…” He pulls out the door, providing Francis a view of his neat room. “…get in?”

He swallows when Francis’ stare never left his face, his expression in deep thought.

“Where have you been?”

“A friend.” Alfred’s swift reply.

“You don’t have friends.” Was the swifter reply from his guardian, who crosses his arms, his foot in the verge of tapping impatiently on the floor.

“Søren’s a friend.”

Francis levels him with a blank stare. “I just talked to him on my way here, my boy, and he told me he never saw you last night. So, I’ll ask again, where have you been?”

Alfred looks away, his eyes focused on the irregularities on the floor, like the cracks and strange little marks of metal skidding on the concrete. Who knew they looked so interesting?

“Alfred.” Alfred flinches at Francis’ dry tone. He sounded exhausted but despite that, he doesn’t seem to plan to end the conversation any soon. Slowly, he looks up to meet the eyes of his guardian, who, to his surprise, does not look in any way upset with him as he previously had made it look like when Alfred opened the door for him for the first time tonight.

The fatigue was showing prominently on his eyes, where crows’ feet seems to be showing more and more as days go by.

The sight is unfamiliar and Alfred finds himself falling prostate, his guards slowly coming apart, bit by bit as he comes closer to the other, his body no longer being shielded by the door.

Alfred begins, guilty, “I need to talk to you.”

In that moment, Francis’ eyes had looked different. The strange glow of his irises somewhat dims as they gaze at him, haunted. With voice so low that no one else could’ve heard it but his own, he says, “What have you done this time?”

Alfred winces at the flood of memory that surges through his head in that moment, all replaying at once, muted and black and white, save for the sharp flashes of red, the tears and the screams and the cries of the witch.

“They were so loud,” He chokes out, then to his own surprise, tears drop as he closes his eyes,  his hand coming up to cover his mouth. The image itself brought his guardian speechless, running to him in confusion to catch him as Alfred’s feet buckles beneath his own weight.

He doesn’t understand; the tears and the frustration and this cold air that’s penetrating his veins, leaving his blood chilled down to the bone as the thoughts continue to play in his mind, blocking his vision and his reality nothing but a distant memory of the past long gone.

Then he sees the flames, the green eyes and death, everywhere around him. He cries when he feels Francis’ arms wrap around him, like a ward, to keep him in the present.

But it’s too late.

“It’s so hot,” He sobs out, his arms wrapped around Francis, his knuckles white as they grip hard on the older man’s clothes. He feels his legs skid down the ground as he was slowly led down, to lie on the floor, his head on Francis’ lap.

“Shh,” Francis says to his ear, his cold fingers running through his hair. A hand, ice-cold, finds his and it holds him in a steady grip.

“The _fire,”_ Alfred gasps, his grip tightening until his nails, blunt and straight, buries themselves  into Francis’ flesh. The older doesn’t react to it but instead tightens his hold more on the younger, shushing into his ears as they started to rock gently on the ground.

Francis wipes at Alfred’s tears, dripping uncontrollably down his cheeks, to his collarbones.

“Who’s with you?” Francis asks him, patiently waiting for an answer as he presses his lips to Alfred’s forehead---a sign of comfort.

Alfred sobs but nods, blinking his eyes open but unseeing, glowing bright amidst the darkness of Alfred’s room. He looks up, at the ceiling, stars reflecting on his irises as he breathes in and out, “Slowly,” Francis reminds him and he nods, breathing in and out slowly this time before his jaw tenses, his mouth clenching and his teeth chattering. He’s having a hard time pulling out words from his throat. Everything is suffocating, constricting.

He ends up sobbing some more.

“Alfred,” Francis insists, calling his name, pulling him out of the oblivion. “Tell me who’s with you.”

Alfred swallows, “F…Francis…”

“Yes, you’re right, I’m here. Who’s the other one?” The last question slips out of Francis’ tongue accidentally, pulled from habit. Despite Gilbert’s absence, he supposes his question doesn’t have to mean literally.

But Alfred doesn’t see it that way.

“A..Arthur.” _Arthur_ , his image flashes into the back of Alfred’s eyes. He sees his smile, the way his eyes crinkle underneath the sun, and the way his arms held him as a child. Protected him from all that is evil in the world.

Then he’s gone. Dead.

“Arthur,” Alfred cries, his tears leaking some more out of his eyes and they drip into Francis’ lap. Suddenly, Alfred feels a painful pull at his chest, his lungs being squeezed, and fire exploding in his head, burning everything and leaving nothing but ashes in their wake.

“Where is he?” Alfred turns to Francis, opening his eyes: blue and glowing as they glistened in tears.

For a moment, Francis had appeared taken aback, his expression unreadable as he peers down Alfred’s face with eyes that one can only see as pitiful. Carefully, he threads his fingers through Alfred’s hair, ever so-soft no matter the years, like a new born babe.

His brows furrow in loss and confusion as he whispers, “Arthur’s been dead for centuries, my boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why is Francis asking Alfred who's with him? Basically, I gathered that to pull PTSD patients from their episodes is to keep them rooted in present, since their episodes are most likely about their past that caused to develop...well, PTSD. Not so obvious, because Francis is as expressive as bella swan in this fic, but he's totally not expecting Alfred to pick at an old scar, lol.  
> All in all, I find this chapter...Yeah, boring. Everything used to be too slow then I dropped the porn and everything is suddenly too fast. Hopefully this number nine curse is over (for this fic). My mind is in shambles and apparently I see ghosts.

**Author's Note:**

> Jeebus. Another fic oh nooo
> 
> Actually this is the VERY FIRST hetalia fic I ever posted online...back when I was new into the fandom I did some hefty research that lasted about 5....months? Could be six....or wait...ANYWAY this is from a kinkmeme.  
> Took me years (not really) to think over whether or not I'll deanon and post it here with my name stamped on it bc the first draft that I posted in the kinkmeme were..sucky imo and my muse died so
> 
> but my muse was kind of alive again and I thought "should I upload this"
> 
> and now its like only 12 am but I'm sleepy already but I'm studying for an exam that I'll take in about...6 hours...//slumps
> 
> So YES! Another happy ending--ish....bc OP from the kinkmeme wanted a happy ending...so here I am...making another fic that ends up happily....my friend is gonna lose her shit...idk


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